


making art

by wearing_tearing



Series: reality warping [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Steve Rogers, Bottom Steve Rogers, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearing_tearing/pseuds/wearing_tearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so Bucky lied. </p><p>He’s not going to fail art class. Even if that means having to talk to Steve.</p><p>He’ll just have to brace himself, and pretend the night they spent together doesn’t feature in pretty much all of his fantasies. He can do this. He can swallow down his pride and hurt and lust and ask Steve for his help.</p><p>Or at least that's what he tries to tell himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	making art

**Author's Note:**

> loosely based on the prompt: _“we’re in the same art class and I’m awesome, but you’re not and you’re failing and you need help so I guess I’ll tutor you”_
> 
> thank you to whatthehale for reading this over and to acuisle for talent ideas. :*

Bucky Barnes is good at a lot of things.

Like origami, remembering song lyrics (especially to _We Didn’t Start the Fire_ by Billy Joel, which he blames Clint for), playing the piano, math, making the best BLTs you’ll ever eat, and doing a handstand and walking on his hands across the room without falling over.

So Bucky is good at a lot of things, some of them being the reason why he’s majoring in mechanical engineering. It just happens that being able to make artisn’t one of them.

And that leads him to his current dilemma: he’s failing art class.

Which _cannot happen_. In any circumstances.

He’s supposed to be graduating this year, after years of hard work and tears and a bit of blood (which Bucky also blames Clint for). He just needs the extra credit to be able to graduate, and he thought art class would be easy, since he’s used to drafting for some of his engineering classes anyway.

Well, Bucky was wrong.

There’s nothing _easy_ about making art.

*

“I thought you said you had this.”

“Shut up,” Bucky groans, falling face down on the couch. He wrinkles his nose when he gets a whiff of chips and wet dog, squirming around until he’s lying on his back instead of his stomach.

Clint throws an eraser at him, which Bucky easily bats away. It falls to the floor, rolling around until it hits the foot of their coffee table and stops.

“I think your precise words were, and I quote, ‘ _I totally have this_ ,” Clint says, lowering his voice and doing an incredibly inaccurate impression of Bucky.

One would think that after about ten years of knowing each other, four of those which they spent living together, Clint would be better at it. It’s embarrassing, really. So much so Bucky goes right ahead and tells him that.

“If anyone is an embarrassment in this apartment, it’s _you_ ,” Clint answers, pointing a finger at him. “You’re _failing art class_.”

“Don’t remind me,” Bucky sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What am I going to _do_?”

“Well, you could drop the class,” Clint says, and barely has time to duck before Bucky throws a pillow at him. “Or not.”

“I _have_ to graduate this year,” Bucky tells him, eyes wide and a little wild. “I _have_ to. I can’t stay in this place anymore. Graduation is the light at the end of a very dark tunnel for me. I need to come out on the other side by the end of the year or I’ll _die_.”

Clint rolls his eyes at him. “Stop being so dramatic.”

“Then stop being so unhelpful.”

Clint makes a face at him, which turns from annoyed to considering in about three seconds. Bucky stares at him through narrowed eyes, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

“I might have an idea.”

“Does it involve doing something illegal?” Bucky asks him. “Because I’m not letting you get me arrested again.”

“It was one time!” Clint protests. “And those guys deserved what they were getting.”

“Well, I didn’t deserve to spend the night in the drunk tank.”

“Do you want to hear my idea or not?” Clint huffs.

“Sure,” Bucky says, because there’s no way Clint’s idea could be worse than getting into a bar fight. “Hit me.”

“We might know someone who could help you.”

Bucky frowns, going over in his head all the people they know. “Who?”

“Steve.”

Bucky freezes, hear speeding in his chest. “What?”

“Steve,” Clint says slowly. “Rogers. Natasha’s friend? You’ve met him. He’s a Fine Arts major.”

Yeah, no. This idea is a _hundred times_ worse than getting into a bar fight. Bucky would rather be arrested again. He’d rather be arrested again and have someone throw away the cell keys. That’s how much he doesn’t want to have to talk to Steve Rogers.

“I know who Steve is,” Bucky replies weakly. And he does. Oh, he so does. Which means the next words out of his mouth are, “I guess I’m going to fail art class.”

*

They meet through Natasha, Clint’s girlfriend, at one of the many house parties she decides to drag Clint to. And Clint, for his turn, bugs Bucky into tagging along with promises of doing the dishes for the rest of the month.

Steve Rogers is tall and blond and muscled, wearing paint splattered jeans and thick-rimmed glasses. He is smart and funny and kind, with his quick wit and dry humor and soft smile. He is warm and he smells good and he’s the best sex Bucky’s ever had.

Until he leaves Bucky to wake up alone the next morning.

Until he doesn’t meet Bucky’s eyes the next time they see each other.

Until he pretends nothing ever happened between them all the times after that.

*

Okay, so Bucky lied.

He’s not going to fail art class. He meant what he said to Clint about having to graduate this year, and he refuses to drop out of art and delay his graduation for another semester.

Even if that means having to talk to Steve.

He’ll just have to brace himself, and pretend the night they spent together doesn’t feature in pretty much all of his masturbatory fantasies. He can do this. He can swallow down his pride and hurt and lust and ask Steve for his help.

Or at least that's what he tries to tell himself.

The first time he tries to talk to Steve doesn’t go so well. Mostly because as soon as Bucky sees him leaving his class, Bucky ducks behind a tree and stays there long enough for people to start noticing and giving him weird looks.

The second time, Bucky goes to the library and, when he catches sight of the back of Steve’s head and his hearing aids, he immediately turns back around and leaves.

The third time....

Well, the third time’s the charm.

But that’s because Bucky isn’t the one to approach Steve at all.

*

“Is this seat busy?”

Bucky goes still, grip tightening around his textbook as he slowly lifts his head up.

Steve is standing in front of him, looking at the vacant chair in front of Bucky and clutching at the strap of his bag, the other hand holding on to a coffee cup. The blue henley he’s wearing stretches across his chest and shoulders, the fabric clinging to his skin and making Bucky’s throat dry.

“Nevermind,” Steve says, snapping Bucky out of his daze. “I can find somewhere else to—“

“No, no, it’s— There’s no one here,” Bucky says, heart tripping in his chest. “You can sit.”

“Oh,” Steve says, cheeks flushing pink. “Thanks. I doubt I could find an empty table here, it’s too crowded.”

Bucky looks around the coffee shop, making note of three other tables with at least one empty chair. He doubts anyone would deny Steve the chance to sit with them if Steve asked, but he refuses to think there’s something to Steve asking _him_ to share a table with.

Especially after the _incident_ and especially after being so thoroughly ignored—

And yeah, okay. Maybe not _ignored_. Steve is too polite to outright pretend someone doesn’t exist, but the bland smiles and avoidance of eye contact and painful small talk makes Bucky feel just as bad as if he was being ignored. Maybe even _worse_ , because if he was being ignored he wouldn’t have to _see_ Steve every once in awhile and be reminded of their night together and everything Bucky is missing and desperately wishing he could have back.

“No problem, pal,” Bucky says after an awkward pause, trying to give Steve a smile.

He thinks it comes out looking more like a grimace, but it’s not like he can help it. Being near Steve hurts as much as it makes him giddy at this point.

And Bucky can’t help but think his sister is right: crushes _suck_. He even makes a mental note to buy Becca something extra good this year for her birthday. She deserves it.

Bucky pretends to go back to his book as Steve sits down, going as far as picking up his highlighter and uncapping it. He can still see Steve over the top of his book, though, dropping his bag on the table and taking out one of his many sketchbooks and a pencil.

The next fifteen minutes are spent in blissful and excruciating silence, with Bucky pretending to study and pretending not to notice _Steve_ pretending not to sneak glances at him as he draws. It makes Bucky swallow around a lump in his throat and his palms sweat, because he doesn’t know _why_ Steve keeps looking at him every couple of minutes or so.

He even goes as far as picking up his phone and opening the camera app, checking to see if he has any crumbs clinging to his stubble or a hot chocolate mustache or something dumb written on his face. It wouldn’t be the first time he left the apartment without staring at himself in the mirror and missing the _hug me i’m grumpy_ Clint wrote on his forehead in black marker.

That’s not the case right now, as he stares at himself on his phone. His face is clean, and aside from the dark circles under his eyes and the flush on his cheeks, he looks like he always does. Even his hair seems to be cooperating today, only a few strands escaping from the bun at the top of his head. So there’s no reason for Steve to be _staring_ while he draws.

Unless—

But that’s not possible.

There’s no reason why Steve would—

Not after—

 _Unless_ —

Bucky’s eyes widen, highlighter falling from his hand and rolling across the table. Steve looks up when he hears the sound, brows furrowing as he picks up the pen and offers it to Bucky.

“Is everything okay?” Steve asks when Bucky doesn’t make any moves to grab the highlighter, instead placing it on top of one of the many notebooks piled on the table. “Bucky?”

It shouldn’t be a surprise, not really.

Bucky’s been blurting things out at the most unfortunate times since he was a child, some words coming out of his mouth as soon as he thinks them. Just ask his mom. Or Clint. Or anyone who’s ever spent more than a day in his company. It’s a thing that happens when he’s nervous or anxious or overwhelmed, when the words burst out of him like they can’t be contained anymore.

So, again. It shouldn’t be a surprise.

But that doesn’t mean he still doesn’t want to punch himself in the face when he looks up at Steve and asks, “Are you drawing _me_?”

Especially because the look on Steve’s face as soon as the words are out of Bucky’s mouth is one of shock that quickly turns into embarrassment. There’s no mistaking the way a blush starts forming from Steve’s cheeks down to his neck for anything other than that. There’s also no mistaking Steve gathering his things and standing up so fast his chair tips backwards, the noise drawing the attention and eyes of everyone in the room.

There’s a split second where Steve just stands there, blue eyes wide and horrified, before he’s bolting through the door, not even stopping when accidentally bumps into someone getting inside. And it’s only about five seconds later before _Bucky_ is running after him, leaving all of his shit on the table, vaguely hoping no one will try to steal anything while he’s away.

“Steve!” Bucky yells after him, which only makes Steve walk faster. “Fuckin’ dammit.”

Bucky runs, careful not to get run over as he crosses the street. Wouldn’t want to end up in the hospital before he has a chance to ask Steve _what the fuck_ just happened.

Steve looks over his shoulder, face pale and eyes round, but he doesn’t stop until Bucky gets a hand around his wrist, grip tight.

“Will you stop for a goddam second?”

Bucky tugs at him, trying to turn Steve around. He’s not successful, with Steve planting his feet on the ground and refusing to move. Bucky makes a little annoyed sound in the back of his throat, taking a step closer and putting himself face to face with Steve instead.

Steve is resolutely not staring at Bucky, head ducked and lashes low as he looks at the ground. His hands are balled into fists, and Bucky can feel the rapid beat of Steve’s pulse under his fingertips.

“What the hell was _that_?” Bucky asks, a little breathless.

“It was nothing,” Steve snaps, jaw clenching.

“That didn’t look like nothin’, Steve.” Bucky shakes his head, hair falling in his eyes. “You _ran away_ from me and almost sent a guy crashing.”

Steve winces, but his only answers to Bucky is, “Just forget about it.”

And that, well.

That makes Bucky _angry_.

“Forget about it?” Bucky narrows his eyes, nails digging into the soft skin of Steve’s wrist. “Sorry to say, pal, but I’m not as good at forgettin’ stuff as you seem to be.”

Steve glances up at Bucky’s harsh tone, looking equal parts surprised and confused. “What?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Bucky, I—,” Steve starts, staring at him with wide blue eyes and his pink mouth parted, looking like he’s doesn’t know whether to run away _again_ or to pass the fuck out.

“Why were you drawing me?” Bucky interrupts him, and then shakes his head. “No, wait. Why did you come to _talk to me_? We both know you could have picked somewhere else to sit.”

Steve licks his lips, and Bucky does everything in his power not to let his eyes follow the movement. He doesn’t think it works very well, if judging by the way Steve relax an inch and his mouth parts again for an entire different reason than surprise.

“I heard you were having issues with art class,” Steve tells him, voice low. “Natasha mentioned it and Clint said you were thinking of looking for a tutor.”

Bucky keeps his expression blank, when on the inside he’s screaming _liar liar liar_ and plotting Clint’s murder.

“I thought maybe—,” Steve stops, clears his throat. “I thought maybe I could offer, you know. To help you out. So you wouldn’t have to go looking for someone who’d probably charge you for it.”

Bucky blinks. “You’d do it for free?”

Steve shrugs one shoulder, looking all kinds of uncomfortable. “Well, yeah.”

“But _why_?” Bucky asks, disbelieve evident in every line of his face.

“Because,” Steve mumbles.

“That doesn’t tell me anything, pal.”

Steve doesn’t offer anything else, just presses his lips in a thin line and stares at a point over Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. His voice is low when he speaks next, eyes soft. “Why were you drawing me?”

He watches Steve’s throat work as he swallows, focusing on the thrum of Steve’s pulse still under his fingertips.

And when Steve answers, well.

He kind of turns Bucky’s world upside down right then and there.

He squares his shoulders, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. When he lifts his head, his gaze finds Bucky’s straight on, all defiance and determination. “Kinda hard not to, when I think about you all the time.”

And now it’s Bucky’s turn to gape at him, jaw going slack at the same time his heartbeat speeds up.

“Wha—“

“And I know you don’t feel the same way,” Steve says, like _that_ makes any lick of sense to Bucky. “You don’t even remember the night we spent together, so how could— But it meant a lot to me, Buck. It still does. Even if you don’t—”

And that—

That’s not _right_.

That’s the opposite of _right_.

It’s so far out of left field that Bucky doesn’t even know where they’re standing.

“Steve—”

“I never planned on saying anything,” Steve talks over him. “I was never going to mention it. I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

And that only makes it _worse_.

That makes Bucky’s chest tight and his eyes sting and it makes him think that maybe Clint was right about Bucky not drinking Natasha’s mixed cocktails because they’d either kill him or fry his brain.

Because that’s the only excuse for him being so _stupid_ about this, about not _talking_ to Steve after everything that happened: a fried brain.

“Stevie—”

“But you figured out I was drawing you, so I guess it doesn’t matter now.” Steve stares at him and dares and says, “I like you, Bucky. A lot. That’s why I was drawing you. That’s why I’ve been drawing you since the night we met.”

And Bucky feels like the entire world is shifting and righting itself beneath his feet right then and there, as he stands in a crowded street with Steve, the only point of contact between them being Bucky’s palm around Steve’s wrist.

“We’re so _stupid_ , Steve,” Bucky says, torn between laughing and bursting out crying. He settles for taking a step closer, resting his other hand flat in the middle of Steve’s chest. “So fuckin’ _stupid_ , god.”

“What are you talk—”

“You thought I didn’t remember it?” Bucky asks him, shaking his head.

“You were drunk,” Steve says, voice high.

“I was _not_ ,” Bucky corrects. “I had three beers and was drinking water when Nat introduced us.”

Steve opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, not knowing what to say.

“Why did you leave?” Bucky _needs_ to know. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“Because I didn’t want you to tell me to go,” Steve admits, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t want to wake up next to you only to have you say it didn’t mean as much to you as it did to me. Or to find out you didn’t even remember anything, didn’t remember _us._ ”

“But you thought that anyway,” Bucky huffs.

“You didn’t tell me otherwise.”

“Because I woke up in bed alone after the best sex I’d ever had and you wouldn’t even look me in the eye the next time we saw each other!” Bucky argues, poking Steve in the chest. “It was not exactly weird of me to come to the conclusion that you didn’t want anythin’ to do with me after that.”

“I did, though,” Steve tells him. “I still do.”

“Good,” Bucky says. “And me too. To all of it, Steve.”

“Wanting to have me around and liking me?”

“And also that part about thinkin’ about you all the time since we met,” Bucky adds. “Because I do.”

“Good,” Steve says.

And Bucky repeats, “Good.”

Then Steve is smiling, so wide and bright it hurts, and Bucky is helpless but to grin back. He rests their foreheads together, letting go of Steve’s wrist so he can wrap both of his arms around Steve’s shoulders.

“So stupid,” Bucky mumbles. “We should be ashamed of ourselves.”

Steve’s hands find his waist, the touch warm and grounding. “Or we could spend that time on something else.”

Bucky hums, rubbing their noses together. “Like you helping me out with art class so I can graduate on time?”

“That’s not what I—,” Steve bites down on his bottom lip, cheeks turning pink. “But yeah, Buck, sure. We can do that.”

Bucky laughs, giddy. “But after that I wanna hear what you were thinkin’ about, sweetheart. Fuck knows I’ve had months to come up with all kinds of things I wanna do with you.”

Steve’s blush deepens, but if it’s because of the endearment or Bucky’s suggestion, he can’t tell.

“It’s a deal,” Steve says, breath ghosting over Bucky’s lips.

“Glad to hear it,” Bucky nods.

And then he’s closing the distance between them and pressing their lips together in a kiss, slow and sweet and like everything he’s ever wanted.

*

Bucky’s things are still on the table when they come back to the coffee shop, his hand holding tight to Steve’s.

People turn to stare, giving them looks that vary from annoyance to surprise to amusement. Bucky doesn’t care, just grins at everyone while Steve ducks his head and scratches at the back of his neck.

*

That’s where they meet the next day, and the day after that and the one after that.

Steve does his best to help Bucky with the differences between drafting and what he needs to accomplish for class, never once losing patience. It helps that after a certain amount of time Steve always insists they take a quick break to stretch, and Bucky takes the chance to steal kisses and see if he can make Steve forgo tutoring in favor of them going back to his place.

*

Bucky is glad to find out that sex with Steve is even _better_ than he remembers it.

He might have a hard time making art, but when it comes to making Steve come apart, Bucky takes to it like no one else.

It’s easy, when Steve looks so good spread out for him, all pale skin and hard muscle, dark eyes and plush mouth, choked up moans and Bucky’s name on his tongue. It’s easy, when Steve opens up for Bucky, wraps himself around him, holds on tight as Bucky fucks into him, slow and deep. It’s easy, when Steve sucks marks on Bucky’s neck, digs his nails into Bucky’s back, Steve’s voice in his ear telling him _harder_ and _please_ and _I love this I love you_.

Bucky might have a hard time making art, but when it comes to making Steve come apart, Bucky loves nothing else.

*

Bucky passes art class and graduates at the end of the year.

Steve, Clint, Natasha and Bucky’s family are all there, congratulation him with big smiles and tight hugs and a few tears. And a kiss that makes Bucky’s toes curl, but that’s only from Steve.

Bucky also buys Becca something extra good for her birthday that year, even though she turned out to be wrong.

Because crushes?

Well.

They’re _awesome_.

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hello!](http://hawkguyz.tumblr.com)


End file.
